voice (UN ????) | open to anon/misfire replies

[priorly]

What's that poem about how the world ends? Fire, or ice.

Funny, really, we've been at the sharp end of both in recent weeks and here we all are, still muddling along, impossible to destroy. Like cockroaches, or Twinkies. Well. Most of us, anyway.

But it seems to me that ice is more a paralytic than an ending. Perhaps a precursor to slow cessation. A numbing, which - left long enough - allows one not to even notice as all the more vital components gradually freeze. Stasis, an ending without closure. They're the worst kind, I think.

But don't mind maudlin old me. I haven't been sleeping well.

At any rate. If you knew Byerly or Dorian -

Well, lucky you. They're gone now. Stasis. I thought some people might like to know and it turns out to be torture to have to say it over and over.

And it's colder here than I anticipated.

That's all.

Comments

[priorly]

There's nothing wrong with reliable matching.

Are you saying I'm not appealing?

[sheriffing]

Not you, the ice queen who raised you.

[priorly]

Mm. Well. Not so much an ice queen as scotch on the rocks.

But if she was, then something froze her. I mean, I imagine. It hardly matters now, given how literal that state is. Mother, dear old Dad, everybody I've ever loved or wanted to be loved by are an attractive assortment of stasis popsicles now.